The Woes of the Infernally Wed
by FancyFreeThinker101
Summary: Because living with Bernard is always bound to cause trouble... A most probably shorter sequel to Woes of the Eternally Bored. Promises to show more Megamind than its predecessor. Will be M for adults doing adult things in chapters to come. Discontinued because frankly, it sucks. I will try my hand at a sequel later, when I sort my ideas out.
1. Prologue: Reflections

_AN: Hello! Let me start by saying that this is osmething I've been wanting to write, but haven't been, because of various reasons and trifles. Honestly, I didn't think anyone would want to read it-so, when it was requested that I write a sequel, I was exceedingly thrilled. I had just the excuse I wanted. So here it is; it'll probably be a good bit shorter than the first, and is once again, just for fun. Enjoy, and please review! Also, I am aware that this chapter is sort of a prologue and I apologize; I just felt that a quick recap was in order. I promise stuff will start happening._

_P.S. Thank you Megamindheartforever, for providing me with an excuse to put this up here. ;)_

Marriage, like Ignatius Reilly, was a being of many facets.

There was, to start with, the _intimate_ side…the side which involved Sharp, bed, and a decided lack of clothes…

Really, the state of matrimony was rather more pleasant than I had initially supposed. I had become used to waking up alone in my apartment, and thus the sensation of waking to find her, warm and curled against me, was, to say the least, pleasurable…

She would sigh, and while still asleep nuzzle my chest, murmuring little "mm"s as her eyes gradually opened and she alas smiled up at me, quite amorous and ever ready to begin a new day.

I found, in the first few months of our—union that Sharp (how the name stuck!) was more of a wanton minx than I had previously imagined. Often when I returned home from a day at the museum, it would be to find her wearing only a large tee shirt (her chosen apparel of seduction; Sharp, I soon find, had rather an antipathy toward lingerie) as she sat on my desk, hair loose and legs swinging in a manner quite…engaging…

"Hullo, Bernard," she'd say, swinging herself off of the desk and approaching me. "Help me out, would you? I'm having a hell of a time getting this shirt off."

To refuse was, of course, quite out of the question…silently, I would oblige, pulling her in and sliding both hands beneath her shirt…

And already her hands would be at my belt, undoing it, yanking it out, and then at my trousers as I made a strangled, groaning sort of noise and pushed her up against the wall.

Some of this uncouth behavior appeared to have rubbed off on my dreams, for I found them not abated in the least after my nuptials…if anything, they were far worse, for now specicifics were much more easily called to mind…

The first time this happened, I woke hot, sweaty, and breathlessly aroused and lay there, clenched and praying Gwendolyn wouldn't wake and catch my…vulnerability…

But of course she did, and after a sleepy "Bernard, what's wrong?", soon discovered the source of the problem…

"Oh," she said, flushing but looking rather pleased than otherwise. "Bad dream, Bernard?"

"Yes," I said curtly, mortified that my nocturnal lusting was now so apparent…but Sharp, the curious minx, smiled softly and said, stroking my cheek:

"Don't be self-conscious; it's normal."

And, tangling one hand into my hair, she let the other wander beneath the bedclothes; a moan slipped from between my teeth.

"It's alright," she soothed, as the world caught fire with alarming swiftness. Her mouth was gently pressing against my jaw, over and over again…I, in my confusion, couldn't decide whether it was comforting or arousing…

"See, it isn't so bad," she told me-and the events of my dream happened all over again...

And afterwards, as she lay with her head on my still-pounding heart, she twisted her head to look at me and smiled at my expression.

"You look almost happy," she teased, kissing the shamefully dreamy, idiotic smile which I knew was stretched across my face. By now rather drowsy, I only murmured "vixen" before pulling her closer and once more falling asleep.

Besides the carnal aspect, there was also a more emotional one, one which mortified me greatly, for it showed weaknesses I'd never thought myself possessed of…

The first time I dreamt that she was gone, I awakened to find myself groping blindly in the dark for her familiar warmth, mumbling in a voice not at all indifferent:

"Gwen…Gwen…"

Within moments she was beside me, arms about my neck as she said, in a much gentler tone than Gwendolyn typically used:

"I'm right here, Bernard. Right here."

I said nothing, only pulled her in tight and buried my face in her hair, unable to stop myelf from saying:

"Don't leave…don't ever leave…"

"I won't," she promised, as her grasp on me tightened. "Ssshhh, shhhh, I won't, I promise."

Still unreasonably terrified that she'd vanish before my eyes, I held her tightly, recalling the emptiness…

It was difficult to accustom myself to the idea that I was no longer alone, that there was someone to reach for now when the dreams became unbearable—often, the whole thing seemed "too good to be true", as the vulgar cliché went, and I found myself waiting apprehensively for truth to reassert itself. For my cold, solitary existence to return, and for warm, vibrant, frustrating Gwendolyn Sharp, with her tumbled hair and big eyes and incurable untidiness, to be only a wild fancy.

And then there was the mundane aspect.

Living with Gwendolyn Sharp was, I soon found, a day-to-day experience, and one which at times evaded description. I soon gave up in my attempts to teach her tidiness; order and method were simply not in her nature. Her person seemed to exude a constant aura of disarray.

We argued, of course; I firmly maintained that one could not spend a day in the company of Gwendolyn Sharp _without_ arguing. They were harmless and followed a typical pattern; she, the Sharp minx, would lose her temper over some uncommonly caustic witticism or remark of mine. I would reply with biting indifference…she would fire back a retort…and so on and so forth, until she had enough and called me an asshole. When this happened, I would shrug, advise her coolly to expand her vocabulary, and resume whatever I'd been doing before the absurd dispute. Gwendolyn would be silent for a moment—frown—bite her lip—look at me—and then finally laugh, and sit beside me, kissing my jaw and lightly proceeding to forget the whole thing.

"I think it's a good thing I married you, Bernard," she would say, smiling as her head settled on my shoulder. "You're so collected, it's impossible to really fight with you."

"Not that you don't try," I'd murmur, dryly.

Ungrudgingly, the little thing would laugh, and allow:

"You're right, I do my damndest."

I would sigh tonelessly and concentrate fully on the task at hand, doing my best to ignore her. Cocking her head, she would say, with a sincerity that elicited from me a blush:

"You're kind of adorable, did you know that?"

And then she would smile wider as the heat crept up my neck and spilled over onto my cheeks…and I would, with difficulty, stifle a smile. Something about the idea of Gwendolyn Sharp (though that was no longer her name) finding me attractive always disoriented me exceedingly…

I would never know quite how to reply to such comments, and so would simply say "Don't be absurd, Sharp" and leave it at that.

We both knew, however, that deep down I rather…liked Gwendolyn's absurdity—and so by mutual consent she never paid me any mind.

-88888—

"Bernard?"

I was more than half asleep when Gwendolyn's voice reached me and, consequently, my reply was rather muddled.

"Mmph?"

She was lying on her stomach, the sheet draped over her back as she pored absently over a scientific book; in addition to Presidents, I found Gwendolyn had rather a weakness for chemistry.

"I hope this isn't er…untoward, but when will I meet your family?"

Instinctively, I clenched, teeth setting as a barrage of bad memories overwhelmed me…lonely Christmases spent listening to my mother lie to my father…lonely birthdays which found me in bed trying to forget that I was born…long, hot, lonely summers, locked in my bedroom, wondering when one of my mother's _callers_ would leave and I could again come out…she always told them she had no children…

If I had my way, it would be a very long while before Gwendolyn Sharp even saw a picture of my family. The very last thing I wanted was more of her pity.

"Never," I said, brusquely, fully awake by now. "You don't want to, believe me."

Sensing this was not a wise topic to pursue, she abandoned the subject and moved closer to me.

"Oh—alright. Just wondering."

However, I saw the crease of her brow and knew, with an inward sigh, that the topic was far from exhausted. I thus made it my mission to keep it at bay as long as possible.


	2. Chapter 1

_AN: Hello, and thank you thank you thank youuuu to all the wonderful reviews I got! I'm so glad you all enjoyed! Here's chapter two; I have mixed feelings for it. Had a devil of a time writing it. Anyway, thanks again and please let me know what you think_

"Bernard?"

Gwendolyn, arrayed in a pair of old jeans and little else, walked quite breezily into the living room, as if the windows weren't open and any number of potential peeping toms traipsing down the street at that moment. I blinked, gaped, and then frowned, all in the space of a few seconds; despite three months, I was still unused to the…freedom which accompanied cohabitation with another individual.

"Clothe yourself, Sharp."

"Oh, for God's sake," she said easily, rolling her eyes as she shut the curtains. "Nobody saw. And besides, I'd be thrilled if you walked around without a shirt on; where's your sense of the romantic?"

"I don't have one," I retorted, wishing that this were true. "Now what do you want?"

"Just wanted to tell you that Mum and Dad want us to visit them soon; no prizes for guessing what they want to talk about."

Sighing, I made no reply; I had met Gwendolyn's parental figures only twice, but both times Mrs. Sharp had none-too-subtly hinted that grandchildren had better soon follow our union. God.

"When?"

"I think they want us to come tonight. Come now, don't look like that; they're not _so_ bad. Dad sort of likes you, I think."

I snorted; Sharp's paternal figure was a rather eccentric American History buff, a wild-haired old man who seemed perpetually absent-minded. I doubted he had even remembered my existence, or that I was now the spouse of his youngest—I hoped; I had no energy for _another_ Sharp sibling—daughter.

"I'm sure."

She laughed, and, because she knew I professed to hate it, stood on tiptoe and stole my glasses, laughing at my dumbfounded expression. Quickly mustering up a look of bored irritation, I said in a monotone:

"Sharp, if you still pull this crap when you're forty, I'm throwing in the towel and divorcing you."

"Ha!" she said, like the sprite that she was. "Crank."

"If by that then you mean 'logical adult', then yes, Sharp, I suppose I am."

All the while I stood there, squinting and waiting for her to replace my spectacles...when she didn't comply, I exhaled slowly.

"Sharp, give them back."

Even without them I knew she was smirking.

"Only if you ask politely."

"Forget it. I'll buy some new ones."

She let out a peal of mirth and impudently set them back on my nose, giving me not even a moment to focus my vision before she took my face in both hands and kissed me.

-88888—

A few hours later, both Sharp and myself were on the road, she fiddling with the radio, I mapping out the best strategy to sneaking a book under the table; one could only stand so much chatter about "little ones". Gwendolyn, as if she'd read my mind, said quite suddenly:

"By the way, if I catch you reading under the table again the consequences will be severe."

"I'm quivering."

She grinned, and already that look that said "mischief ahead" was on her face, gleaming in her eyes; I sighed, and prepared myself for anything. One never knew what to expect when the minx got to plotting.

"Don't believe me?"

"No, I believe you," I deadpanned, shrugging. "I just don't care."

Her eyebrows went up, and I could see she was struggling to stifle a laugh.

"Touche."

After a moment of silence, she murmured, in a musing tone:

"I _could_ withhold sex…"

"You could," I allowed calmly, as everything within me protested the thought. "But you won't."

"You're right," she said, acknowledging the fact. "I won't. It would probably punish me more than it would punish you."

Despite my severe doubts on that point, I kept my expression cool and utterly devoid of emotion as I replied:

"You're catching on."

She rolled her eyes.

"Grouch. What if I…hmmm…damn, can't think of anything good. What if I asked you very, very nicely to behave and promised to reward you handsomely?"

"I doubt you have anything I want," I snorted, not at all tempted by the thought of old jeans, tee shirts, the occasional skirt or sweater, and a heap of tattered books about this or that president or scientific theory. But the little imp only waggled her eyebrows and said:

"Bah! You've proved yourself wrong on _that_ point multiple times!"

"You have a puerile mind, Sharp," I retorted, flushing at the memory of how very erroneous I had indeed proven that statement.

"And you have an adorably innocent one," she said, and terminated the discussion by wrapping her arm around my waist and resting her head on my shoulder.

And somehow it was simply understood that there wouldn't be any reading under the table.

-88888—

"Be nice…"

Sharp's arm tightened momentarily round me as she whispered one last request; nodding, I sighed and knocked on the door.

Oh, the joys of marital bliss.

It opened, and the Sharp elders beamed at us—that is, Mrs. Sharp beamed at us. Mr. Sharp gave an absent smile which wavered at the sight of me.

"Oh, Gwen, Bernard, how wonderful! Come in, come in! Dinner's all ready to eat."

"Delightful," I murmured, with only the barest trace of sarcasm; Gwendolyn pinched my hip, smile intact.

Superbly oblivious to any insincerity on my part, the elder Sharp woman said in a matronly tone as she bustled about:

"So, Gwen, honey, when will I be seeing my first grandbabies? Have you and Bernard discussed names?"

Already without an appetite, I set down my fork; and so it began. Gwendolyn's cheeks burned; looking faintly uncomfortable, she said, quickly:

"Er, nooo, not yet, sorry, not er…not on the radar yet. We um…we're taking it slow."

"Still?" The Sharp matron did not even bother to hide her disappointment. "Well, I have to commend your cautiousness…it _is_ a huge responsibility…what do you think, Bernard? Not ready either?"

I did my best to hitch onto my face something that could perhaps be considered a smile.

"I hate children."

There was a silence; Gwendolyn bent hastily over her food…but not before I saw her mouth twitch. Her mother opened her mouth as if to say something—looked at me—smiled—closed it again—and made an exceedingly non-committal noise in the back of her throat. Mr. Sharp, who had been staring contemplatively at his own fare, looked up suddenly.

"The three-fifths compromise…of course…"

My—oh, how I hated to say it—mother in law was, apparently, quite used to this sort of incongruous outburst; without missing a beat she said simply:

"Yes, dear, of course. Try and keep your head in the present, would you?"

I could not help but think that, were I so unfortunate as to be wed to Mrs. Evelyn Sharp, I would most probably stay out of the present as much as possible…

"Right, right, yeah," murmured the paternal figure of this peculiar house. "Of course…what were we talking about again, dear?"

Quickly Gwendolyn came to his aid.

"Kids, dad. Mom's been waxing poetic again about the joys of children."

"Oh, again?" He frowned, slightly puzzled. "I dunno, Gwen; if I were you, I'd enjoy my time together before er—little ones. Get your conjugal benefits while you can; it's a lot harder with children."

"George!"

"Sorry, dear."

But he smiled before returning to his soup; a moment of silence passed, which I, as was my practice, did nothing to alleviate.

Finally, Mr. Sharp spoke again.

"Bernard, so I gather you aren't a fan of procreating? Passing on the lineage?"

I shrugged and simply repeated my statement; with Mother Sharp in the proximity, I'd found, forcefulness was a useful tool.

"I hate children."

"Come on, surely not _all_ of them? Gwen tells me you're fond of little Marianne."

Oh, Sharp had really been laying it on thick.

"She's tolerable."

"'but not handsome enough to tempt me', eh?" chuckled Father Sharp. "Well, in any case she talks an _awful_ lot about Uncle Bernard, so I judge you've got a bit of a fan. Seems to think you two are scheduled someday soon for another game of chess. Says she won, but you're pretty good."

Gwendolyn let out something which may have been a snicker into her food at my expression; pretty good, indeed. The youngest of the Sharp clan needed taking down a peg or two.

"Beginner's luck," I said dismissively.

"Well, so far your interactions with kids don't seem so horrific. Why do you hate them so?"

The father of Sharp was a curious sort; he seemed genuinely interested in my reasoning, and, food forgotten, had his chin in one hand as he stared at me, awaiting my reply. Somewhat uncomfortable, I averted my gaze.

"I find them irksome," I said, with what I hoped was a supremely indifferent shrug. Sharp's father nodded, now frowning slightly, as if dissatisfied with my response.

"Ah. I see."

Another few moments of tense, unnecessary silence passed, wherein Gwendolyn toyed with her fork and I wished with everything in me that I had even the most frivolous of books with me…

"So, Bernard."

That was the Maternal Sharp, bright smile in place as she prepared herself for an exchange with her boorish and supremely unfriendly son-in-law. I steeled myself for another barrage of the virtues of babies.

Thus, what came out of her mouth was supremely unexpected.

"Tell me about _your_ family; you never mention them."

Clink.

Gwendolyn's spoon hit the plate with rather a distracting clatter; immediately she sought to remedy the situation.

"Uh, Mom, I er…Bernard doesn't…he doesn't…he's—estranged from his family. It's um—not a pleasant topic for him."

At once, she realized her blunder, and one hand went to her mouth as she said, quickly:

"Oh—I-I'm so sorry, I had no idea…sorry…Gwen, dear, come here for a moment."

And without another word she dragged her youngest—and by far, most troublesome—offspring out of the kitchen, presumably to hear a much-abridged, furiously whispered version of my family history. I exhaled slowly and closed my eyes. And I had thought the baby discussion was bad.

-88888—

The rest of the abominable dinner had only worsened; both mother and daughter had returned, murmuring a half-hearted excuse about discussions for Christmas plans, and the rest of the evening had been spent in a sort of forced lightness from which I was only too glad to escape.

Unquestionably, however, the very worst part occurred just as Gwendolyn and myself were leaving; placing one hand on my shoulder, the mother of Sharp had murmured:

"Bernard, come see for a moment."

Reluctantly, oh so reluctantly, I sighed and followed, only to find myself in a dimly lit hallway with Mrs Sharp as she bit her lip and looked extraordinarily mortified; it struck me at that moment that, when embarrassed, she was the "spitting image" of her daughter.

"Er, look, Bernard…" she began, clearly at a loss for how to begin. "I just want you to know…if you ever um…need…anything…I…I…"

Oh, God. More pity. Just what I wanted.

"I'm fine," I said, damning the heat which was overtaking everywhere from my neck upwards. Just as wretchedly embarrassed as myself, she looked away and mumbled:

"Yes, I-I know…I just wanted to be sure. Alright, then, I'll um…let you go…"

And she walked hastily off, whilst I tried to erase the entire encounter from my mind.

-88888—

It wasn't until we were halfway home that Sharp mentioned the figurative "elephant in the room". Touching my arm, she said, softly:

"I'm sorry."

Keeping my eyes firmly on the road, I said, flatly:

"Why?"

"Because I know—I know how you hate talking about it. And I know you really didn't want to go tonight anyway, so…"

"They were going to ask eventually," I said simply, moving one shoulder up and down. She frowned, and her arm slipped around me.

"I know."

As we pulled into the driveway, she said, in a very soft voice she rarely used:

"Will you tell me about it sometime? I-I know a little bit, but not much."

Silently, I considered her request. It was not a pleasant task, certainly…yet it was something which would inevitably have to be done.

Damn.

"Fine," I said, after a long moment. "I'll tell you tomorrow."

Standing on tiptoe, she kissed me directly under the ear and murmured:

"Thanks."

And so we went up the creaking stairs together and shut the door behind us.


	3. Chapter the Second

_AN: Wait, this thing has a button for line breaks now? And here I was using a made up symbol like a sucker. Anyway, apologies for my atrocious typos, I was typing some of this on an Epad. Also, thanks a million to to Vast Difference for their advertising of this story; I'm very very grateful, and I'm glad it's liked. Also, as to Megamindheartforever, I'm glad you liked it, and I'm not quite sure how long this will be. It depends on the inspiration I , and apologies for the wait; school has been hell. Also, the er...M-ness is coming, in case anyone was interested._

When I woke the next morning she was on the phone, wrapped in a ragged sheet and speaking quietly to whoever was on the other end. Rather used to her irksome presence beside me in bed first thing in the morning, I frowned.

"No, it was fine," she was saying. "He behaved quite well, actually….yeah, Mum was still practically begging us to get wild on the way home and produce a grandbaby for her. Same old, same old….no, I'm alright, just a bit worried…yeah…no, really, it's fine…it's just…it's just…well, his family came up in conversation…yeah…no, I got her to change the subject…yeah…I-I dunno. He hasn't um-he hasn't really told me. I know…I dunno what to do…."

Oh, God. No doubt she was conversing with the rather dull Felicity about the dreadful events of the preceding evening. Sighing, I sat up, groping for my spectacles. At once, my…wife turned and, murmuring a quick goodbye, set down the phone.

I raised an eyebrow.

"What were you doing?"

"Talking to Fels," she said, the pinkness of her cheeks contradicting her cool tone. "What did it look like?"

"Mischief of some sort," I said simply, shrugging. It was the safest bet. She smiled, as if acknowledging my rightness on that point, and perched herself, with typical impudence, upon my knee. I stiffened automatically; not even years pf conjugal union was accustom me to her unpredictable wantonness…

"Will you tell me now?" she asked, and her tone was quiet. The unpleasant reminder of my statement of last night made me frown and try unsuccessfully to remove her from my lap. Predictably, she wouldn't budge.

"No."

It seemed as if she had almost anticipated this; turning around so that she faced me, she wrapped both legs around my waist, eyes wicked at the expression on my face.

"You know, I _did_ promise to reward you handsomely if you behaved…"

Eager to move away from the troublesome topic at hand, I nodded slowly and murmured, with as little enthusiasm as possible:

"You did."

"I do like to keep promises," she said softly, linking her arms around my neck and speaking in my ear. My face burned, and there was an abrupt flow of blood in a southerly direction...

Gwendolyn's fingers were caressing my scalp, and moving down to the nape of my neck…

Then, abruptly, she pulled away, unwinding her legs and arms and turning around, whilst I groaned in sheer disappointment…

"You have to keep _your_ promise, though," she stipulated, rather unfairly. "You keep yours, I keep mine. Deal?"

There was a long silence, wherein I contemplated whether or not it would actually be worth it to keep my promise to Gwendolyn. Relating my miserable history would certainly be no picnic…yet the thought of Gwendolyn's "reward" was, indeed tempting…and her recent teasing had left me far from clear headed…

"Fine," I sighed, at long last. "But you owe me."

She beamed, as if I'd done her an enormous favor; I had to acknowledge, albeit grudgingly, that on her, it was somewhat…winning.

For her, anyway.

"Excellent. Now, can you tell me?"

And she leaned her head on my shoulder, staring up at me, clearly ready for my tale of woe.

God.

Deciding to keep things as brief as possible, I said:

"I was a mistake. My mother was not a careful woman, and she saw a lot of men. My father happened to be more honorable than the average Joe, and when he found she was pregnant he married her. She didn't like him, and she didn't like me. She started rather a trend in that respect. She would go out often at night, and come home very late. She was loose. My father never knew what to do about it. He left sometime shortly after I turned fifteen. I saw my mother little after that. I spent a lot of time in my room, reading. As soon as I turned eighteen, I moved out-here, in fact. I went to college and became a museum curator. There. Can we fuck now?"

But she, the irritating snippet, instead of immediately fulfilling her enticing promise and distracting me from the blankness that was-well, had been-my existence, just stared, compassion evident in her large greenish eyes.

"Oh…Bernard…I-I'm so sorry…d-do you know where she is now?"

Doing my best to appear disinterested in the extreme, I shifted one shoulder.

"As far as I know, she still lives in the house I grew up in. She may be dead now. I don't really care."

She chewed her lip, contemplating my words.

"Oh…is-is there anything I can do?"

There was that emotion I'd hated all my life, the one I'd done anything to avoid: pity. Somehow, coming from Gwendolyn, it was worse.

"No. It's fine. Leave it be, Sharp."

"But-"

"I'm not saying it again, Gwendolyn."

Gwendolyn frowned, evidently deciding whether it would be wise to pursue the topic; evidently she was not _quite_ as senseless as per usual, for she nodded slowly and for a moment we sat in very rare, blessed silence.

But, like all good things, it was not to last.

"Bernard?"

"What?"

"Is that-is that why?"

Though her question was brief, I understood it perfectly and nodded curtly. Yes, the pertinacious minx had hit the nail on the head. That was indeed why. Why I was the way I was, why I'd spent the greater part of my life in total, defensive indifference…

She furrowed her brow, evidently deep in thought.

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Bernard?"

"What?"

She slipped both arms around my neck at this point, and kissed me-a much softer, slower kiss than the wild and heedless minx usually gave. Pulling away by a half inch, she stared directly at me and said, with utmost earnestness:

"I love you."

"Mm-I know," I murmured, not quite coherent.

"Well, remember that," she told me-and then slipped both hands under my shirt, pressing herself close to me. I didn't mind.

My hand worked its way onto her leg, and I found myself seeking northward...she gasped, and a soft noise came, unbidden, from her mouth...

In away, it was extremelybsatisfying, seeing her wide eyes, her deeply flushed cheeks, all of it excellent proof that even shameless hussies such as herself could be thown off balance...

Her knees clamped around my waist, and her mouth found mine in a matter of moments...quite as ready as she was, I swallowed and, ready to efface the memory of my mother, my childhood, my miserable homelife, maneuvered her so that she was on the bed, removing deftly any clothing which stood in my way...

And it was highly unlikely that I would ever forget.

* * *

Afterward, she spoke from her beside me in bed.

"Don't think you've gotten out of a further discussion jus because you're mindblowing in bed."

The mortifying smile whch was tugging at my mouth wavered. Damn.

"Why can't you mind your own business?"

Propping herself up on her elbow, she replied:

"Because ever since I met you I have been extremely nosy and it has brought me a power of good. Wouldn't you say?"

I rolled my eyes.

"You may have benefitted. I can't say life has improved much for me."

"You lie, Bernard Grahame," she said cheerfully. "You know you love living with me."

Keeping my face carefully blank, I murmured:

"You have your uses."

She laughed and kissed me beneath the ear.

"You're an ass."

Then, growing abruptly serious, she said

"What would you think about er...seeing her? Your mother, I mean...or, if you'd er rather not," as she caught a glimpse of my reaction, "maybe just someone else in your family...um...wasvthere anyone that you...liked?"

This was rather a difficult question to answer; truthfully, I wasn't sure.

"I believe I was mildly indifferent toward an uncle on my mother's side."

"Well, what if we went and saw him? I just...I think it would do you good to have one bond with a family member."

I considered it. The minx had rather a point, just this once...at any rate, it couldn't hurt.

So long as I didn't have to interact with...her...it would be, at least, bearable.

"Perhaps."

And for the moment, nothing else was said.


	4. Chapter Trois

Thankfully, Sharp did not get to the business of resurrecting my poor, tragic family life all at once; when I woke the next morning, she appeared more interested in investigating _me_—and quite thoroughly at that—than anyone in my family.

Needless to say, I was rather late for work that morning.

However, just as I was crossing the threshold, I heard her say, in a musing tone, almost to herself:

"You'd make an interesting father, Bernard."

For reasons quite obvious, this observation disturbed me to no end.

Good God.

* * *

The thought nagged me for a good deal of the day as I sat in my solitary office; a _father_. Of all the vile and unnecessary things to be.

I shuddered as I tried to imagine it—I, the grueling paternal figure of some snot-nosed brat, working myself into slavery just to pay for all those distasteful things children appeared to need these days.

Things like food and tuition and clothing and other such absurdities.

Besides, Gwendolyn was almost a child as it was; with my abominable luck, the young one would probably be a miniature version of her—a brazen little piece of goods, chattering inanely about presidents and Gilbert Lewis and other such absurdities.

For a moment, I allowed my mind to conjure up the dreadful image—a wild, heedless, auburn haired stripling, with some horrible name of Sharp's choosing, calling me Daddy and creeping into bed with Gwendolyn and I and doing all those other hideously cliché things children were supposed to do.

Then, recalling a small, blonde boy with large glasses whose mother didn't like him, I shook my head, delivering the NO with great finality.

Childhood in itself was a dreadful ordeal—I, though no fan of the human race, would never want to inflict it upon an innocent being.

For years afterward, I was to think of what occurred that day at work as an epoch in my life, a brief ray of hope in my recently less meaningless existence.

He came into my tiny box of an office, smiling somewhat nervously. I admit the expression was rather a let down; I had always pictured him looking far more nefarious and dictator-like.

"Er—Mr. Grahame?"

I didn't look up for a moment, per the standard routine—but slowly, slowly, years of obsessive reading and scouring of the Internet came to my aid, and I lifted my gaze from my work.

Sure enough, there he stood—slender, majestic, and an almost Kool-Aid shade of blue. In my shock, my expression momentarily lost its customary look of mindless boredom.

"Yes?"

He closed the door quickly behind him, bearing what I now saw was a fruit basket with the words _To Mr. and Mrs, Grahame_ written in what I strongly suspected was that nosy reporter's neat script on the card.

Oh, dear God.

For a moment, I earnestly believed that there was an afterlife.

"Hello," he, the azure benefactor of Metro City, said. "Er—Bernard, sorry this is so late, Roxie and I have been _so_ busy…"

As he spoke, there came a look into those green, tennis-ball eyes which I decidedly did not like; it appeared that the brilliant villain-turned-guardian of the city was now spending rather a lot of time in the horizontal position. How appalling.

It was, I reflected with a slight grimace, almost a pity; I for one had hoped that they slept in separate rooms.

_Separate ends of the house would be better…pixie-haired tart…_

Deciding that such sentiments would most probably displease the lovestruck alien, I simply kept silent, waiting for his mind to wrench itself away from the perfume-drenched recesses of Ms. Ritchi's anatomy.

It took a disturbingly long time.

At last, however, he recalled my presence and flushed, continuing at a breakneck pace:

"So anywayyyy, at the request of my dearest Evil Queen—I mean, my beloved fellow Angel in the Works of Goodness—I have a um—reward for—well—you know—being dehydrated and kept in my pockets for ohhh…a few months or so."

"It was three months and twenty seven days," I informed him coolly, not about to let him see that his hallowed footsteps had made the dingy carpet a treasure beyond worth. "And you are extremely boring when you're soliloquizing about Roxanne."

The tips of his ears turned a flaming shade of violet; shuffling his leather-clad feet, he murmured:

"Oh—you heard that. Ah. Well, all that aside, I came to offer my deepest apologies and my congratulations. I heard you too placed your neck in the sacred noose resontly?"

Rolling my eyes at the characteristic mispronunciation, I replied, with a shrug:

"Unfortunately. The Grahame Family Tree is nearly reduced to a few charred pieces of timber."

Clearly, even evil geniuses had difficulty replying to such a statement as that.

"Ah. Yes. Well—my condolences. Again, congratulations and I am very sorry about all the con-foo-sion. Well, I had better go—things to do, planets to dominate—no, sorry, I mean, cities to protect. The um, Eeeevil thing is a bit hard to get over. Goodbye, Bernard—give your um—wife my…regards."

And with a swish of black leather he was gone, closing my door behind him while I, numb, tried to process what had just occurred.

How…not horrible.

-88888—

Sharp was mindbogglingly calm about the entire affair.

"Oh, how sweet!" she said, smiling as she examined the gleaming basket of organic victuals. "They really do seem very nice—I'd like to get to know them a bit better."

I was on the cusp of actually agreeing with her—luckily, however, I recalled the piquant, made-up face of the insufferable Ms. Ritchi, and the order of the world was thus maintained.

"You weren't so fond of them when you were insanely jealous of Roxanne Ritchi."

She flushed and looked as if she had rather hoped I'd forgotten that.

"Oh—that was stupid of me, I know. But Bernard—well—she's _gorgeous,_ and she'd been _all over_ you—well, the Megamind version of you. I justwanted to make sure you hadn't been screwing her secretly behind Megamind's back."

Then, cutting off the inevitably sarcastic repartee on my part, she continued:

"But, really, I'll at least have to write them a thank you note—and you will sign it, yes you _will_."

"Why on earth would I want to thank them?"

She shot me the patented "Know-It-all" smirk.

"Well, that ecstatic grin you had on your face when you came in might be a good reason."

Immediately I frowned; damn. I'd hoped she hadn't seen that.

"Hell," Sharp said playfully, "I don't think I've _ever_ made you look like that.."

Abruptly her expression became wicked; leaning in, she murmured:

"Except for that one time. Remember?"

With blazing cheeks, I acknowledged that the memory in question had not entirely eluded me…

"I hope not," she said softly, and then both hands were on my chest, moving up and down—and then, just as I was beginning to seriously consider forgetting any work I'd planned to do for that night, she stopped, one hand frozen in the act of slipping beneath my turtleneck.

"I wonder…" she mused, biting her lip. Rather disappointed at this unorthodox turn of events, I inquired quite acerbically just what sort of idiocy she was contemplating now.

"Hush," she said, absently. "I'm thinking."

"An unusual state of affairs, I'll grant you that."

Her only reply was to pinch me on the arm

There was a moment of deep contemplation on the part of Sharp; then, with that characteristically bewildering shifting of gears, she let go of me altogether and sat down at the table, pulling from out of nowhere a pile of plain white cards.

"C'mon, I've got to write them a thank you note. Come help me."

At once I mapped out the swiftest escape route—her hand, however, was too quick, and wrapped itself around my arm with alarming speed.

"No, you don't. At least sign your name."

"Absolutely not."

She set down her pen and looked up at me, wide eyed and distracting. I scowled back; it was unusual for the Sharp Child to employ such cunning tactics.

"If you do," she coaxed, her tone one of unspoken promise, "I'll make you very, very happy…"

"I doubt that's within your power," I shot back, as my mind raced with all the ways she could "make me happy". "I don't believe I've ever been in such a state."

Again, that smirk; my pulse became momentarily unsteady.

"I think I can swing it."

And standing up, she took me by the lapels of my blazer, toying with them for a moment before leaning in and kissing me for all I was worth, twining both hands in my hair and nudging a knee between my legs, eliciting a moan…

And then she was gone, sitting demurely at the kitchen table, grinning at the expression on my face.

"That's all you're getting for right now," she said firmly, as I intimated none too subtly that I was not averse to continuing. "I have to write this out, and anyway I want to think about something."

And that was all she would say on the matter.


	5. Chapter 4

The next morning, Gwendolyn arose exceedingly early and did not return until a good period of time after her shift (which now began at eleven and ended at five) was over; I had to admit it was—peculiar, eating by myself again. The silence, to which I had once been so accustomed, was now rather unnerving; frowning, I turned on the radio, settling on a rather acerbic political station which I found tolerable; it was not until I had finished my solitary meal that she of the unexplained absence came in, wind-ruffled and smelling suspiciously of both Roxanne Ritchi's perfume and the library. I, immediately up in arms, merely raised a brow at her cheerful "Allo, allo. Missed me?"

"Not particularly," I said warily. "Where were you?"

"Here and there," she murmured absently, helping herself to the now cold food. "Ah, look at you, you can cook now, can you?" as she inspected her dinner.

"Of course I can. The stereotype of male helplessness in domestic matters is merely that—a stereotype. I can manage quite well on my own."

"So I see," she said, and for some reason the minx found my reply rather amusing—her mouth was twitching, as if trying to hold back laughter. "Did you get another visit from Meggers?"

I, who was about to resume the slippery subject of her tardiness, stopped short, my ears ringing in protest. Meggers. Good God. Surely it didn't mean what I thought it meant.

"Who?"

"Meggers. You know, blue, has a goatee, is your favorite individual ever—besides me, of course—that guy. Did you see him again?"

"His name is _Megamind_. Your raping of his proper name is appallingly disrespectful. And no."

Again, that twitching of her mouth, as if whatever I'd said was exceedingly funny; I scowled. As always, her laughter was cause for concern.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said, and then contradicted herself by breaking into a laugh, which she tried vainly to stifle. Finally, she explained, with an attempt at seriousness:

"You're so—I dunno, you're so _serious_ about him. He's a person, you know—well, technically an alien, but he's not a deity or anything. I doubt I'm taking his name in vain."

There was simply no replying to such crass disrespect.

"Oh, and by the way, you got a compliment today," she continued breezily, putting her plate in the diminutive sink. Now the little thing was telling an outright lie; I never received compliments, save the peculiar observations she occasionally let loose.

"Oh, really," I said, without a question mark.

"Mm-hm," she said, smiling hugely now. "From Roxanne Ritchi. She said you were quite brilliant."

There was a moment of slight surprise wherein I reflected that I hadn't known that the reporter even remembered me, much less any personality traits—then I recalled that to me, the succubus Roxanne Ritchi's opinion meant less than nothing, and shrugged, moving on to the more interesting point of the statement.

"What were you doing talking to Roxanne Ritchi?"

In rather a too-casual voice, she said:

"Oh—I just went to deliver that thank you card. Wanted to thank them personally."

"How touching."

"Yes, well, one of us has to show some goodwill," she said, kissing me lightly on the jaw. Then, rather quickly, she went on:

"Oh, and I'm going to a movie with Fels tomorrow evening; it's a romance, I doubt you'd be interested. However, I would like to ask you a favor…do you think….er, do you think you could possibly babysit Marianne while we're gone? Fels's man is out working late, and she's too young to be alone at home at night…"

I frowned, considered it a moment, and then shrugged. I had grown—accustomed to Gwendolyn's unusual niece over time, and had discovered that, despite her youth and hereditary obstinacy, she was quite a hand at chess, much better than her heedless, hopelessly un-strategic aunt.

"Fine. What time?"

"About seven, I think. Thanks, Bernard," as she kissed me quickly on the mouth by way of showing her gratitude. "I owe you."

"A great deal, yes."

She left then, saying lightly that she was going to shower, while I sat there, mildly puzzled.

As one would assume from her wild nature, Gwendolyn was terribly obvious when she was secretive—and it seemed quite apparent that there was something she wasn't telling me.

* * *

"Bernard?"

"Mm?"

"How does this look?"

I rolled my eyes and made sure to give a deep, harrowing sigh as I lifted my gaze from my book. God.

"Since when have I cared?"

"Since never, I know, but c'mon, I know you'll be honest with me. Please just tell me what you think."

Another sigh, just to assure her of my utter indifference; wrenching myself from a rather engrossing study of Megamind's formative years, I looked up to behold rather an unusual spectacle: Gwendolyn, she of the eternal jeans and tee shirts, clad in a soft black dress which tied around the neck. My eyebrows nearly disappeared into my hairline.

"Well."

"That bad?" she said, light hearted but rather serious nonetheless. I, not quite sure how to phrase what was going through my mind, shrugged jerkily and murmured:

"Adequate."

"What does adequate mean?" she said, exasperated, piling her hair up and away from her neck and surveying herself in a mirror. Again, I shrugged, loath to voice my thoughts.

"Well—you look—er—"

"Very good, now just pick an adjective, any adjective, and fill in the blank."

My ears were now burning, and I was not even particularly certain why—my mouth seemed bewildered at the foreign feel of the phrase I was about to utter.

"You look—pretty, Gwendolyn."

Down went the hand, down went the hair, around went the body, and wide went the eyes.

She stared at me as if trying to detect a note of sarcasm in my expression. I quickly made my face as blank as possible.

After a moment, she said, suspiciously:

"Really?"

I gave only a curt nod in reply; under no circumstances would I repeat that harrowing phrase.

"Oh," she said, a trifle stunned. "Alright. Um—thanks, Bernard."

"Mm."

And she left for her outing, a funny little smile on her face.

* * *

At precisely seven, the Niece—as I still called her—was deposited on my doorstep, and gave me a rather grave hug, while I stood stiffly and bore it.

"Hello, Uncle Bernard," she said, kissing me rather bashfully on the cheek. I nodded and stifled the absurd twitching of my mouth.

"Greetings."

She sat on the worn sofa as was her custom and then, when I sat beside her, did something she'd begun to do of late and laid her head against my shoulder. I, still not sure how to react to this, made no comment or acknowledgement of it.

At last, she spoke.

"Uncle Bernard?"

"What?"

"Aunt Gwen said you're attractive. Is that true?"

I coughed profusely for a moment, blinking at her in shock; good God, the minx was growing more like her aunt every day.

"I-I wouldn't know," I said, honestly. "When did Aunt Gwen say that?"

"Today," the unblushing spawn replied, matter-of-factly. "She and Mom were talking about you as Mom drove me here. They were talking about you, and Aunt Gwen said you were really good at something—I didn't hear what, though. She whispered it."

Oh. Oh, God.

Typical Gwendolyn; the minx had absolutely no discretion whatsoever. Good God.

"Ah," I said, with a miraculously straight face. "I wouldn't pay any attention. Your aunt is always saying something stupid like that."

She had learned, it seemed, to take many of my more acerbic observations toward her aunt with a grain of salt; shrugging, she said:

"Aunt Gwen talks about you a lot, Uncle Bernard. Mom doesn't really understand it."

I snorted; Felicity Abramson and I were still on terms of mutual dislike.

"That's nothing new."

There was a silence, wherein we both simply sat there; after a few moments, she murmured:

"Do you want to play chess?"

I shrugged.

"Nothing else to do."

* * *

We were in the middle of the game when she spoke again.

"Uncle Bernard, Aunt Gwen's been very into history, too. Lately, anyway."

"Presidents don't count as history. That's just your aunt's natural gold digging tendencies."

"No, not Presidents," she said, carefully moving her Queen so that it captured my knight. "She's been into Metro City history lately—looking up old records and whatnot."

I paused, my piece suspended above the board; old records. How peculiar.

Frowning, I came to the decision: the minx was up to something, and I would do my best to discover what.


	6. Chapter 5

_AN: Hey! ...Been a while, hasn't it? So sorry about that; I actually went through a stage where I said to myself: "This is crap, I don't know why I'm writing it." Anyway, hopefully y'all enjoy, and reviews are wonderful._

She came back at some obscene hour that night, smiling broadly as she handed the now sleeping Niece to a most anxious Felicity, who clearly worried of my poisonous influence on her precious child.

I, not at all inclined to indulge a fussy mother, sighed and murmured, with my most expressionless face:

"Going already? She hasn't even seen the Fuhrer yet."

From her place by the sofa, Sharp was clearly disapproving; her brows nearly disappeared into her loose hair, and she then sent a most reproving scowl my way, mouthing "Tasteless!"

I shrugged; I knew it was tasteless.

I hardly needed the Sharp minx to tell me that.

"Oh," said Mrs. Abramson, tittering rather nervously. "Right. Er...thank you, Bernard. You were a great help."

"I know."

Again, her reaction was almost timid; smiling uncertainly, she took her leave, bidding Gwendolyn a rather hastier goodbye than usual.

The moment she was gone, the Sharp turned to me, her expression both resigned and reproving.

"Bernard..."

"Mm."

She plunked beside me on the sofa, leaning her tumbled auburn head against my shoulder. Absently, her fingers tiptoed up my neck and into my hair.

At once my posture improved remarkably; even now, something of the Sharp minx's caresses had an of spontaneity, of surprise.

"I really do love your hair, you know."

Try as I might, I couldn't seem to QUITE stop the blush that slowly whispered up my neck. Damn her harlotry.

"I've heard," I said, as if it was of no matter to me what she did and didn't like.

"And your glasses," she continued, fiddling with them even as she spoke. "I like those, too."

"What a relief that knowledge is," I observed, somewhat acidly. She smiled.

"So rude...yet we're scarlet, aren't we?"

I at once sensed that a change if topic was in order.

"Sharp, where have you been the past few days?"

"Here and there," she murmured, absently. I was hardly impressed; Van Burenishness did not become her.

"Gwendolyn, your peculiar and rather abnormal niece informed me that you have been occupying your time with

A search through old city records. In her youthful innocence, she attributed it to a love of history."

For a moment, she was startled, and that queer, guilty look flitted across her face...

Yet, audacious vixen as she was, she simply kissed my chin and said, with quickly regained composure:

"Perhaps it IS a love of history, Bernard. Perhaps you're just insanely paranoid."

"Perhaps you're just an incurable liar."

Her smile widened; she seemed almost flattered.

"Perhaps."

Then, standing up, she said, as almost a question:

"Coming to bed?"

Keeping my face blank, I shrugged.

"Nothing else to do."

"Of course not."

I slipped into bed, steeling myself. Occasionally, when night fell, the Sharp minx became a little...bold.

Sure enough, the little snippet curled very, very close to me, pressing her warn little body against mine and laying her head on my shoulder.

I lay quite straight, not looking at her; it was...disconcerting, lying so close to someone, feeling her cheek on my neck. Very different than that to which I had been accustomed.

Months had not yet made Sharp quite normal to me yet.

"You OK?" she murmured, her breath caressing my jaw.

I kept my eyes firmly on the ceiling.

"Yes"

"It's alright, you know," she said softly, moving yet closer to my person. "What we're doing. It's very chaste."

"I doubt anything's chaste with you," I said simply, still staring at the blankness above me. Her mouth touched my ear.

"It's not SO bad, is it?" she said, smiling at me. "Being close to me. You always seem a little...tense when I do this."

"Invasion of personal space is always a little uncomfortable."

"It's not an invasion of personal space. It's being affectionate.

I love you. I want to be close to you. Don't you love me?"

"I thought we agreed not to ask unpleasant questions."

With her stubborn refusal to take offense at my rudeness, my...wife replied:

"You're so grouchy. I think you like it, though. Secretly. It's alright to like it."

I said nothing; experience had taught me that such an admittance would leave me vulnerable to inane amounts of ridicule. Liking things, enjoying them, made it that much easier for the giver to take it away.

"I love you so much," she whispered, almost sadly. "I wish I could..."

But then she paused, thinking.

"Never mind," she said, and moved just a little further away, trying to give me some space.

"Night, Bernard."

"Goodnight, Sharp."

And for the rest of the night she was silent.

It didn't last, this gentle quiet of hers; I awoke to find her propped on her elbow, without a shirt and staring at me contemplatively. I, torn between the typical annoyance and a stirring feeling at her bare white torso, only stared.

"What is it, Gwendolyn?"

"Bernard," she said slowly, cocking her tumbled head. "You don't like children...and you don't want any...and that's fine...

"So far, so good"

Rather hesitantly, she continued:

"But if it's alright with you, I want to know why."

At once I was up, taking my glasses off of the bedside table and turning hastily away.

This was hardly a subject I wanted to discuss.

"I'm going to work."

"But Bernard...it's Sunday."

"I'm going to the bookstore."

"It's closed till noon."

"Then I'm going SOMEWHERE."

I went quickly on my way, wanting to avoid any possible discussion...yet, just as I neared the door, she spoke.

"It's because...it's because of her, isn't it?"

My reply came out sharply, much more so than I intended...

"Gwendolyn."

"Bernard, I..."

"Sharp."

And, lo and behold, she stopped.

I left her to stare anxiously after me as I closed the door firmly behind me.


	7. Chapter 6

_Hi! Felt bad for the lonnnnnnnng wait on the last one, so figured I'd post again while I had time. Not too sure about this chapter; didn't work out as I wanted it to. Well, anyway, enjoy, and please read and review!_

I walked out quickly, expecting every moment that she would come out after me, running and breathless, asking me in her "cross" voice what the hell my problem was.

She did not. I confess I was…startled. Perhaps the little snippet wasn't so impulsive as I had thought.

And, perversely, the surprise lingered, occasionally manifesting itself as something other than simple astonishment, something more like…disappointment.

Not that it was, of course. It didn't matter whether or not I had married the little thing; I was certainly not so far gone as to miss her blessed, silent absence.

It was most probably a trick of the mind, a willfull, malicious ploy to wreak havoc on my sanity. I had already been duped into—feeling for her. Anything else would just be embarrassing.

I sought shelter from the general stupidity of the human race in a small, nearly empty Chinese restaurant, doing my best not to consider what had just transpired.

The prying, meddling minx had really outdone herself this time in the field of poking her nose into others' affairs.

And, what was far worse, she was…not wrong.

I was certain that if she and I were to…produce a child, it would grow up as I had: miserably. The idea of…parenthood was appalling to me: my mother, or perhaps my life in general had seen to that. So Sharp, in her pseudopsychoanalysis, was not entirely off the mark. Gwendolyn had told me before that everyone needed some kind of family; I disagreed. To my mind, they led only to problems.

Way deep down, I was aware that perhaps my feelings were not entirely logical; Sharp, after all, was almost the antithesis of my mother. Considering the facts, it was doubtful that she would suddenly display the same qualities. Yet still the issue remained, and went deeper than a simple reluctance to have history repeat itself: I did not entirely trust Sharp, did not know if I wanted to do something so…momentous with her.

I had, admittedly, more faith in her than in others, and I was slowly coming to grips with the fact that perhaps I did…love her, but there still remained the part of me that was wary of her caresses, mistrustful of the way she seemed to want to be close to me simply for the sake of it…

She wanted to touch me, simply to touch me. This had never happened before in my plodding existence.

It was…enjoyable, indeed, very much so, and after we had been—intimate I had no problem pulling her close…yet every so often, logic would rear its cool, assessing head, and remind me that others had proven traitor before, and sometimes that there was no reason for her to love me…

These little pokings of holes in the—adequacy—of my life did not happen often; in fact, they had not occurred for a while…yet every so often, just when life was becoming bearable—such as now-, they would resurface…

I did not return home for several hours.

* * *

She was gone when I returned, and a note reading the following was left on the refrigerator:

_Have gone to see Mum for a bit; will be back before dinner._

_I love you._

_Gwen_

Sighing, I took the note and placed it in my pocket, not quite willing to throw it away.

_I love you_.

Grabbing a book from the table, I settled down to read until she returned.

* * *

"Bernard?"

I looked up with a reluctance not quite genuine from my book, nodding in acknowledgement of her presence.

"Sharp."

She smiled timidly—Sharp, timid!—and took a seat beside me on the sofa, placing her hand on my knee. Even now, the gesture was unsettling.

"Sorry," she said softly, looking up at me. "About—about well—you know. That."

I shrugged, something in me almost touched.

Almost.

"It's of no matter."

"Yes, it is. I didn't mean to do that, you know—upset you, that is. I thought—I dunno. I just…I really am sorry if I upset you."

As always when Sharp put aside her temper and her wildness and frankly, humbly apologized, I was caught off guard, not sure how to proceed.

"Well….don't harp on it, Sharp. Forget it."

"I will if you will," she said earnestly, and seemed so very penitent, so in earnest, that I surprised myself by taking her face in one hand and kissing her mouth.

She started, clearly a bit surprised, but was soon quite beyond this and taking my face in both hands, running her thumb over my cheekbones and sighing against my lips.

I was very close to doing the same; it was difficult, while kissing Gwendolyn, to fall prey to any insecurities.

They only came afterwards.

She twined her hands in my hair, speaking into my mouth.

"You know I love you, right?"

I felt my mouth, of its own accord, curve into a wholly embarrassing smile.

"Mmm."

"Well, don't forget it. Please."

We broke away, and I did my best to collect my scrambles wits, to retain a shred of my dignity. My mouth, however, had other ideas.

"Gwendolyn, I…"

She looked up at me, waiting, clearly not sure what to expect; the words faltered in my mouth, and then retreated.

"Yes?"

It was of little importance, this question I had. It was absurd, bordering dangerously on sappy, hardly something I wanted to vocalize.

Besides, I thought, that once-in-a-while voice speaking up once more, who knew if she'd answer honestly.

"Forget it. Never mind. It was a stupid question."

Puzzled, she bit her lip—but said, with a light smile:

"That would be a first. I thought you never asked stupid questions."

I almost smiled at this; I attributed such a near miss to my disorientation.

"Go read about a President or something, Sharp. Your forwardness is appalling."

She grinned, and kissed me lightly on the top of head, going off with her typical sauce to prepare some sort of sustenance.

And so, for the moment, the issue was forgotten.


	8. Chapter 7

It was soon after this incident that I ran across that blue near-deity, that once-wicked protector of Metro City, the brilliant Megamind. I confess I was startled at the sight of him; it is not every day one sees perhaps the only other intelligent being to walk the earth, particularly in such a humdrum place as the city streets.

As soon as he saw me, his wide green eyes narrowed, as if trying to place me, and then brightened at once as he smiled.

"Ah! It's you! Greetings, Bernard! How's um—how's everything going?"

"It's all lovely," I drawled, in the most deadpan voice I could muster. Vaguely uncomfortable, he smiled, and the tips of his ears turned violet.

"Ah. Yes. Well. Excellent to see you. I ah—hope you enjoyed your fruit basket…"

I shrugged; truth be told, the only part of the basket of any interest to me was his signature on the card.

"It sufficed."

"Did it? Wonderful! How is your wife—Gwendolyn, correct? She stopped by several times lately to visit, a very charming woman, I see. Funny how such—" he gave an uncertain smile "different personalities can be so…compatible."

"Irony's a bitch."

"Right, yes! Exactly! And by the way, there's no er—recurring damage done to your existence as a result of that—most unfortunate incident with the dehydration gun, I hope?"

Simply to make him squirm, I pretended to consider it; the answer was clear enough. The damage had all been done afterward.

"No," I said at last, with a careless shrug. "Not really."

"What a relief," he said, and oddly enough, there seemed to be not a trace of sarcasm in his manner. "Excellent. Well, I had better be getting back—I have this _delicious _little invention I've been working on…wait."

Those sharp, cat-green eyes had caught the title of the book under my arm; as it happened, it was a detailed and highly respected biography and psychoanalysis of the alien himself. Before I could even flush at such ill luck, however, he said, not unkindly:

"Are you reading that?"

Deciding to simply get it over with, I lifted one shoulder and murmured:

"Re-reading."

For the tenth time, as it happened.

"Hmmm."

His brow contracted, and he pursed his blue lips thoughtfully; I stood in wait for his judgment.

"Well, I just have a few _bons_ to pick with that par-tic-u-lar biography," he said at last, oblivious as usual to his notorious slips of the tongue. I, not expecting this, straightened; was it possible new information was at hand?"

"Such as?"

"Well, to be frank, some of the facts were _completely_ off-kilter…I mean _really_, people…do your _research_…"

"Oh?" I said simply, as inwardly I prayed that he would elaborate.

"Yes, for example…"

* * *

She was waiting for me when I returned home, smiling as she observed my expression.

"Well, well, aren't we in high spirits today," she said laughingly. "What happened to you?"

Trying desperately to maintain my typical stony indifference, I merely replied:

"Nothing of any importance."

"Oh?" she said, perching with characteristic boldness upon my lap and wrapping her arms around my neck. "That's odd. So no secret moonlight tryst with Meggers, then?"

I was torn between the ambivalent urges to at once set her straight on her impudent misuse of the alien's name, and to change the subject as quickly as possible.

"Mega. Mind. Surely even you can remember three simple syllables."

"And surely even you can admit you have the biggest fangirl crush on him in the history of ever."

"Gwendolyn, please desist in speaking. It does you a severe disservice."

"Oh, admit it! I'm not saying you er—roll that way or anything. Pretty sure you don't, actually. I'm just stating the truth: you have an insane hero-worship thing going on with Megamind. It's not a bad thing; it's a bit cute, actually."

I was rather miffed by this, even if I wasn't entirely sure why; perhaps it was her lightness of tone, which in my mind equated such a statement to sarcasm.

At least, such had been my previous experience.

"Shut up, Sharp."

"Alliterative, I see," she shot back, kissing my lower lip. All issues I had harbored against her flippancy of tone seemed to evaporate at once, as did everything else…

"And I really do think you're cute, you know," she said in that soft, earnest voice which always somehow succeeded in…quickening my pulse.

I couldn't help it; I was, though entirely skeptical, somewhat interested.

"Oh?"

"Mm-hmmm," she murmured, that familiar little smile creeping onto her face. "Well, actually," she said, all blunt audacity now, "I think you're really sexy. But cute's a good word to use in public."

If spontaneous combustion was possible with the human race, I would undoubtedly have succumbed to its effects…as it happened, however, I merely swallowed hard and tried to ignore two conflicting rushes of blood…one to my face and another in an entirely different direction…

Sexy. The unfathomable minx found me…or so she claimed…sexy. In all our spontaneous bursts of intimacy, the word had never been used before, at least not in relation to myself. Attractive, yes, cute, yes, even that harrowing fright of a word, _adorable_. But never sexy.

Hm. How…interesting.

"Alright then," I mumbled, the wasted shreds of my snark scattering under the feel of her small warm hands on my torso. "I-I expected nothing better from…"

But she cut off my unquestionably biting remark by pressing her mouth to mine, not seeming to mind as I pulled at her tee shirt, nearly ripping it…

Dazedly it occurred to me that this was as good a way as any to get Sharp's ferrety mind off of my conversation with Megamind…

Abruptly I stiffened, my mouth pausing.

Megamind…

The alien had said something which had heavily lent itself to the mystery of Sharp's whereabouts of late…and I, in my haste to correct the false knowledge dealt me by pretentious biographers, had not even noticed…

"Sharp," I mumbled, a little incoherently. "Sharp…I want some answers."

Clearly reluctant to put an end to such a…promising start, the little snippet sat up, slowly removing her oral cavity from my own. She seemed frustrated, glaring at me with those abnormally expressive eyes which clearly had only one end in view.

"What? Well, if you want them, they're 'yes, I want to fuck you,' and 'no, I don't care where it happens.'"

Fumblingly, I groped at the hand which was working at my trousers, fighting to maintain some semblance of self control.

"Sharp. Desist in your tartery—oh, for God's sake. Be an adult."

With an exaggerated show of reluctance, she obeyed, and stared up at me with a sort of martyred impatience.

God.

Knowing her volatile and not at all predictable nature, I said quickly:

"Why have you been seeing Megamind and Roxanne of late?"

That silenced her.

With wide, unquestionably guilty eyes, she breathed:

"He told you that?"

"Obviously."

"Oh. I-I see." Her face burned white, and then pink, and then a deep crimson…I simply continued to stare. Sharp was a dreadful liar; only a few moments would be sufficient.

"Sharp…"

"I…I…"

"Gwendolyn."

"Okay, okay! Look, it isn't anything huge, but I've been…I've been…looking for your family."

The snippet might as well have said she'd been searching for the Royal Family, so absurd and incomprehensible seemed her reply.

Wordless, I continued to stare; Sharp, wretchedly guilty, cast her eyes to my knees, speaking in a rush.

"I-I want you to have…somebody…or at least find where they are and I know it hurts you so I didn't want to ask so I searched old city records and telephone books and then I met Megamind to tell him thanks and he was so good about it and we started talking and it just came up and he's so brilliant, he had some old records and histories and things and we sort of got friendly and…I'm sorry, Bernard. I really am. I just…I didn't want you to be lonely forever. And you told me you liked this uncle and…well, I guess it was a bit out of line but I…I don't know. I'm sorry if you're upset."

There were several moments wherein I just sat there, thinking hard, unsure of how to react. A part of me immediately bucked away at the mention of family, while another, quieter, more often suppressed portion leant forward, almost excited at the thought of somebody else…

But no. I quickly dismissed this part; I had tried so hard to need no one, like no one. Sharp had wormed her way into being the exception, but I would allow no other.


	9. Chapter 8

_AN: Has it been that long? Shit. Sorry, sorry, sorry! However, school's over now, so I should be making these updates a good deal more regularly, if anyone's still reading...kind of a stupid chapter, but there you have it. More up soon. PLEASE PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK._

There was a long pause. Gwendolyn fiddled nervously with her untidy hair, peeking up at me every so often, seeing how I was "taking it". I sighed.

"Gwendolyn…"

"I-I swear I never meant to hurt you, I just…"

"Gwendolyn," I said again, more firmly. "Stop."

She stopped.

I frowned, running a hand over my hair, thinking.

When I spoke, my voice was slow, measured. The words were a bit trite, perhaps, but at least the tone was controlled.

"I know you meant well…"

"It was more than meaning well, I'm trying to help!" she said, half apologetic, half aggravated. Involuntarily, I snapped:

"I don't need help."

"No, you don't _want_ help," she said, affronted by my sudden sharpness. "There's a difference."

"Are you suggesting there's something wrong with me?" I said, coolly now. She shook her head quickly, appalled that I'd taken her well meaning foolishness that way.

"No! No, not at all! I just…I wanted to make life…easier for you."

"Did you now. How peculiar."

"Yes, I did! I don't want you to live…alone."

"I was fine alone," I said shortly. Those days were…unpleasant to consider, true, but to be pitied for them was unendurable.

"You were not fine! You—you—Bernard, what's wrong with getting to know people?"

"I don't _want_ to get to know people," I said, slowly and clearly. "Particularly not _those_ people."

"I can—I can understand that you…"

"You_ can't_ understand," I said, getting up now and preparing to leave. "Don't pretend otherwise."

I then left. Almost as soon as I was out, I was plagued by the unaccountable wish to go back.

* * *

"Why, Bernard, what are you doing here?"

The Nag of all Nags, the baby-eager Cerberus, the over-chipper bundle of joy that was my mother in law stared with wide, confused eyes at me, the unsociable son in law standing on her doorstep. I shrugged one shoulder.

Words failed me.

"I…"

Without waiting for something so trivial as an explanation, the Sharp woman hauled me in, exclaiming over the lowness of the temperature and the thinness of my customary blazer.

"Come in, come in, have you brought Gwendolyn with you?"

I mumbled something in the way of a negative; a little startled, she nevertheless sat me down on the sofa and plunked beside me, smiling all too hospitably at me.

"So how have you been, dear? What brings you here? Anything I can do for you?"

I stared resolutely at the wall and said nothing, steadily ignoring a prominently placed photograph of a bright, explosive child with long, wild hair sitting in a tree who could only be Gwendolyn.

It was disgusting how revoltingly, stereotypically sentimental people could be.

"Bernard?"

Mr. Sharp, walking absently by, shot me one of his faint, surprisingly lucid smiles and said gently:

"Don't crowd him, love. You'll chase him off. He came for something."

I was already regretting my rash decision and so said, quickly:

"I came to see if I could—borrow a book. Do you happen to have…"

And here I glibly rattled off the name of a book concerning the dietary habits of William Shakespeare.

"Of course," replied the quieter Sharp, smiling a little sadly now. The look in his eyes was too knowing for my tastes, and I kept my gaze on the floor. "Come into the study with me, I'll grab it for you."

Once we were both within the room named, Sharp the Eldest began a slow flow of that horrible bore, small talk.

"So...interested in the Immortal Bard, are we?"

I shrugged, not engaged; chatting with the father in law was not in the contract.

"It passes the time."

He smiled again, quite unfazed by my deadpan tone.

"Gwendolyn says you have quite an interest in history. She says you're very, very bright."

There was a pause, wherein I tried simultaneously to process this information and to not care about it; Mr. Sharp turned, the wanted book in his hand, and gave me one of his mild, unsettling looks.

"Gwendolyn cares a great deal about you, Bernard."

One shoulder jerked up and then down. I nodded abruptly and kept my gaze on the window behind him.

I should have known it would take more than a little incivility to stop a relative of Sharp's.

"I know it's none of my business," he said, after a moment, "but I'll pry anyway and ask: is something wrong between you and the wife?"

"No more so than usual," I lied, a little uneasy. He nodded with contemplative skepticism.

"I see. So nothing has gone—amiss?"

"No."

"Are you quite sure?"

My mouth barely moved to form a reply.

"Quite."

"Really, now?" he said, sitting at a rickety old desk and motioning for me to take the chair nearby. Reluctantly, I complied. "Because my daughter informed me of one of her little…endeavors and I sensed that, well-meaning as it was, it might…displease you considerably."

So he knew about it, his minx child's scheme to correct my psychologically unstable childhood.

Neither confirming nor denying it, I kept silent, contemplating the window. He sighed now, as if he had feared as much, and his fingers danced a little restlessly over the book's dusty cover.

"I thought so."

"She had no business to do that."

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, spoken in a hard, not-quite-cool tone which was, compared to the voice I usually adopted with the inlaws, quite an emotional giveaway…

"I agree," he said, nodding slowly. "But then, Gwendolyn never was one to wait until she had any business to do something to do it."

I could not help but acknowledge the veracity of this statement.

"However, I know she meant it only to help you," he continued. "I think she's worried about you, Bernard."

"That's stupid of her."

"Do you think so?" he replied, and he seemed as if he knew I thought otherwise. "You don't find it nice to think that there's somebody out there who worries about you, even when you consider it unnecessary?"

The man, while his sanity was occasionally disputable, had—perhaps—a point. There _was_ something about being—worried over which was, in its very novelty, both pleasant and alarming…

Taking my silence for an affirmative, he went on:

"I don't know how to fix what's going on in your life, I don't. I wish I did. But I do know that Gwen, while rash and stubborn, wants the best for you. Not that what she did was necessarily the best idea, of course…it wasn't…but look, what did you come for? I know you didn't come to get a book you could have borrowed from the library without all the chatter from your irritating father in law."

Mad as he was, the man was oddly perceptive. Perhaps it would be best to get it out with.

I shifted in my seat and kept my voice as neatly under control as I could as I made a mortifying confession.

"I came because I…wanted to…talk."

"Talk?" he said, as if to imply he didn't know I enjoyed such a thing. "That's simple enough. What about?"

I was disgusted to find that I didn't know; I simply wanted…conversation.

"I-I'm not sure."

"Excellent," he said. "Would you prefer to talk to me or my wife? Or neither or both? We are at your disposal."

My cheeks burned alarmingly; there was something frighteningly vulnerable about this conversation, about the prospect of conversing with the elder Sharps, of them discovering that I was…perhaps…not so indifferent towards life as I appeared.

With my most apathetic expression, I murmured:

"It doesn't matter."

"Super!" said the Father Sharp, seeming actually quite excited by the whole matter. "Well, here then, make yourself comfortable…now, back to the subject of the uh…unfortunate occurrence…"

It was a few hours before I returned home.


	10. Chapter 9

_AN: Hey, another update! Enjoy, and please please review, this story is giving me an ulcer_

I came in rather late, setting down the unwanted book and hoping Sharp had already gone to bed.

I should have known better.

"Where have you been?"

She, in a too-old, too-large tee shirt and not much else, was standing in the doorway, staring at me with wide, wondering, slightly red-rimmed eyes. I wondered if she'd been crying—then quickly dismissed the thought when it proved too upsetting.

It wasn't as if I really cared.

Turning away, I said:

"That's really none of your business."

"Why didn't you answer? I called about five times or so; I…I was worried about you."

I pretended very hard that I was not in the least affected by this statement.

"That's unfortunate."

I waited, expecting a flash of temper, an angry retort…but Gwendolyn only sighed, suddenly sounding very tired.

"I'm going to bed."

My only response was a shrug of the shoulders.

Accordingly, she left. It was a while before I followed her.

The next morning, I awakened with an uncomfortable sensation…an almost oppressive feeling of wrong doing.

What was worse, I had a nasty feeling it was somehow connected to the minx whose empty spot made the bed rather colder than usual.

Strange what the absence of a little body heat could do.

"Gwendolyn?"

She gave no reply, but I could hear her moving about in the kitchen. When I entered, she looked up at me and then at once returned her gaze to her breakfast; I could see that any initiating of civilities would be up to me.

Dammit.

"Sharp," I said, nodding. She bobbed her head quickly in return. To my extreme consternation, I detected a wetness on her cheek, do what she would to quickly wipe it away.

Females were beings of absurd and intricate workings.

"Gwendolyn," I said, in a rather more awkward version of my customary deadpan tone, "why are you crying?"

"I don't know," she said, and the snippet sounded mortified by the whole proceeding. "I-I just…this is all so stupid and I'm so sorry and I've been so worried and _where were you_?"

She punctuated this wild conglomeration of sentences by putting her head on her arms and bursting—she, being Sharp, fully merited the explosive verb—into tears.

I was stunned into silence for several moments—at last, I managed to compose myself enough to pat her jerkily on the shoulder and murmur, every so often:

"There, now."

She, astonishing, unpredictable girl-woman, laughed through her tears and, looking up at me, choked:

"Y-you're so—God, you're so stupid."

"There's a saying about pots and kettles which you should look into."

Another wet little laugh—and then without warning she was hugging me around the neck and laying her damp cheek against my shirt.

"Please don't cry," I heard myself murmur, as I stiffly rubbed her back. Gwendolyn's grip tightened.

"I really am sorry," she said quietly, after a moment. "I—I just…I just…"

"Did you find something?"

The question had come unbidden, born of a curiousity I was not aware of possessing…

There was a pause.

"Nothing really," she finally replied. "Just…well, I-I under—I can see why you'd not want to see them, but your er…immediate family is still within the same area…"

I said nothing, only quickly jerked my head in acknowledgement. For once, the volatile snippet was right; I had absolutely no desire to see any of…_them_ whatsoever.

"But," she began, sounding almost timid, "I-I dunno…I dunno what to advise…I just want…I just want to fix things, Bernard."

I almost smiled at the disappointed, plaintive tone of her voice; trust Sharp to try and solve my problems.

"I should have thought it would be obvious that you can't."

"I-I know," she said, reluctantly. "But...oh, never mind."

"Last night, I paid a visit to your parents."

Up went the head and wide went the eyes; smiling a little, she replied:

"You did? Oh, thank God…I…I had a few fleeting thoughts of you…I dunno…picking up a hooker or something."

"Oh, God."

"I know, it was stupid…but I had no idea and you didn't tell me so I…indulged a few…er…wacky suppositions."

"Well, contrary to your vulgar contemplations, I had a (I grimaced) conversation with my inlaws."

"Oh? Well, how was it? Did Mum bug you about…you know…"

Still wary of the subject from the last unfortunate discussion, she trailed off and flushed pink. I shifted a shoulder noncommittally.

"Not particularly."

"Oh, good! So she didn't annoy you?"

"I wouldn't go that far."

"Well, what did you discuss with them, then? Books? Megamind? Did they give you some tips on how to er…perform as well as possible? Not that you need them," she added, in a low murmur at my ear. I blinked rapidly.

"Gwendolyn, try to keep your harlotry to a minimum. And no, we did not. We talked about…various things."

"Oh, various things, eh? How illustrative. Like what?"

I rolled my eyes, reflecting that it was foolishness on my part not to foresee the deluge of questions.

"That's none of your concern."

"Oh? So you _did_ talk about sex then, hmm?"

Oh, for pity's sake.

"_No, _Sharp. Please _try_ and act your age."

"I tried, and it bored me. Besides, you act about 45 or so. I'm just counterbalancing you."

"I hardly think that behaving in the manner of a ten year old is an effective counterbalance."

She snorted.

"Well, then, if that's so, that makes a couple nights ago all sorts of pedophilia, doesn't it?"

I flushed briefly, but quickly recovered my poker face enough to sigh in deep resignation.

What would be, would be.

"I have to go to work."

"I know," she replied, apparently willing to drop the subject of my parental visit as she settled more comfortably on my lap. "Are you still working under that bitch? …What's her name again? Kate, right?"

"No."

"No? Where'd she go?"

I shrugged. What Kate Hemmings did or did not do was a matter of supreme indifference to me.

"She never sought to confide that to me."

"Hm. Guess she got married or something."

Something stirred in my memory; that did sound vaguely familiar. No doubt my doltish colleagues had been discussing the matter excitedly.

"Perhaps."

And we discussed nothing of any importance until I left for work.

When I returned, she was on the phone.

"Well, I don't know, Mum, I really can't say…no, he didn't tell me.._no_, Mum, I don't think that would be a good idea…**_no_**, we're definitely not ready yet. Look, it's going to be a while, if ever…yes, I understand that…Mum, I'm twenty five, my biological clock is fine! No! I told you already, discussing it only causes trouble! Yes, we're fine, there's just certain subjects that are a bit…_no_, he is not having an affair! Yes, I'm quite sure, Bernard isn't…yes, _I know_ I said he's been taciturn but that's just how he is. It doesn't mean he's screwing around. …Oh, he did? Really? Well, I think that's a good idea but…maybe just give him time, yeah? He's…he takes a while to uh…warm up to people."

She saw me, and her eyes widened slightly before rolling up in what Nabokov once described as the "national grimace of feminine recognition".

"Sorry," she mouthed. "One moment."

I shrugged, sitting down at the table and watching her while pretending to read. She had shed her work slacks and wore only the buttondown—one of the only things Sharp wore which could even mildly classify as 'formal'—, and I found myself…not hating the look in general…

Particularly as it revealed rather a lot of her pacing, restless white legs…

"Bernard?"

My reading charade was now half-hearted to a shameful degree; I found myself staring, like a gawky, pubescent boy, as she went back and forth…

"Mmmmm?"

She was finished speaking to her odious maternal figure and was now looking at me with a faint smile on her face; I hastened to pull myself together.

"Whacha thinking about?"

"Nothing you would be particularly interested in," I replied, as she bent down to fish something out of the cupboard and I, mortified, found myself looking at her and her now-prominent lower half with rather more interest than necessary…

"Oh, really?" she called, half-swallowed by the rickety cupboard as she fumbled about in its depth. "I wish you'd tell me. You seemed…intent."

"I was contemplating," I said simply, as inwardly I contemplated, not unabashedly, how simple it would be to push her against the counter and divest her of that wrinkled, fluttering buttonup…

Oh, God. Things were truly going downhill.

"You're always contemplating," she replied, straightening now and pouring water into the retrieved object (a mere pot).

"One of us has to."

"Grouch," she called breezily over her shoulder, quite unaware of the havoc she was wreaking on my concentration.

She went into the other room and I found myself following, torn by a rather urgent desire to…initiate something and another, more sensible one to leave that to her and save myself the potential embarrassment.

Typically, it was Sharp who started these impromptu affairs, she who teased and laughed and finally kissed me hard. All I had to do was to protect myself from combustion.

"Gwendolyn," I began—and then immediately wished I hadn't spoken.

"Hm?" she murmured, turning round and looking up at me expectantly.

I found myself devoid of anything to say, save the utterly inane; quickly, I decided to pass it off as a mere inquiry as to the placement of this or that book. My mouth, however, had other plans, and I found myself saying:

"You're attractive."

Dammit! Her eyebrows skidded upward with that amused, telltale rapidity as I swore inwardly for having so thoroughly left myself vulnerable to ridicule.

"Oh—thanks," she said, with a little laugh as she rubbed the back of her neck, clearly not sure how to respond. It appeared my comment was not the norm for how such—vulgar matters were accomplished.

Well, then.

The little minx was still looking at me, so I took matters into my own hands and, gritting my teeth, approached her.

"Is there something you want?" she said, a trifle uncertainly. My—ahem—impatience was becoming rather uncomfortable; she was now against the wall as I bent and said the first utterly absurd thing that came to mind:

"Yes. To fuck you. Now."

If ever I had tried to disconcert the Sharp minx, my efforts were amply repaid by the expression on her face as she coughed and said, with a sort of delighted shock:

"Bernard!"

My hands, more adept at the subject than my mouth, were already searching for her hips; her respirations became slightly uneven. I was now pressed very close to her, as was the unfortunate evidence of my "excitement"; her eyes were simply enormous.

"God!"

Quite beyond words, I contented myself with kissing her hard, inwardly steeling myself for some sort of rejection, for laughter at the spectacle I'd made of myself.

Gwendolyn moaned.

Her arms were wrapped around my neck and her hands were running up and down the back of it as _my_ extremities were clutching her rear end with an utter lack of decency. My knee pushed fumblingly between her legs, as in my head a barely heard voice told me I was laughably bad at this.

But Gwendolyn made another soft, incoherent sound and my pulse immediately quickened.

My grasp was now wandering to the place wherein my leg had just made entrance; her back arched and she murmured my name in a breathless, pleading voice.

"Bernard…oh God…"

It was some time before either of us gained coherency.

Afterward, when we were both prostrate on the sofa, Sharp twisted around so that she was lying with her chin on my torso and the rest of her body slanted across my own.

"Hey," she said, smiling. I, not trusting my own countenance, did my best to look bored beyond imagining as I replied:

"Greetings."

"You have to do that more often," she murmured, a wide, dreamy smile on her face—I had a sinking feeling it was identical to the one on mine.

"Mmm."

"You saying the F bomb is somehow a huge turn on," she continued, lying her cheek against my shoulder. Abruptly, however, she had her pointed chin resting on her arms as she said, looking at me with an uncommonly serious expression:

"Hey, are you alright, by the way? You've been a little…odd lately."

As always, I was thrown off by her concern; shrugging, I replied:

"I survive."

"Okay, making sure," she said, though the furrow in her brow said she was still unconvinced. "You know I love you, right?"

I was torn between unthinking pleasure at her statement and confusion as that slight, nagging question which had lately begun to surface: why?

"I'm aware, Sharp."

"Good," she murmured. "Because sometimes I wonder."


End file.
